Laps
by EmRose92
Summary: James Kirk having a bad day, and his two best friends' relentless bickering drives him over the edge. After a massive blowout, he retreats to one of the Enterprise's pools to swim out his frustrations. But McCoy refuses to let him swim alone. NO Slash.


This is a oneshot born of the drabble by the same title included in my story _Life is but a Dream_. It just begged to be expanded, and so I gave in, putting my full length _Of Mirrors_ on hold for a few days (my apologies to all those following that-this one was _begging_. There was nothing I could do!). Reading that drabble is not necessary, but if you're interested in the inspiration, there it is. This one ended up a little more based on McCoy than both he and Spock, but it fit that way, so I kept it. I feel that it ends a little cheesy, but what's Star Trek without a little cheese, right? :) Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

-EmRose

* * *

**Laps**

Though normally he found it amusing, James Kirk was in no mood to listen to the heated bickering from the Science Station. Back and forth it had been going ever since Doctor McCoy had set foot on the Bridge seven minutes before. Again, usually Kirk enjoyed having the doctor join them when things in Sickbay were slow; his perpetual sarcastic wit and subtle mockery of Starfleet procedures and protocol always brought a spark to a dull day. His ritualistic arguments with Spock were legendary, but nowhere were they more followed than on the Bridge. Kirk had even caught Mr.'s Chekov and Sulu making bets on who would come out on top. Chekov was a firm Spock-supporter; Sulu found McCoy's dry humor so funny that he sometimes started snickering the instant the doctor walked onto the Bridge. Kirk had the vague inkling that even Uhura joined in the betting some days, and he knew for a fact that Scotty did. Today, however, even Chekov and Sulu were exchanging exasperated glances with each other, and shooting dirty looks over their shoulders at Science.

Kirk slouched lower in the center seat, massaging his temples. The current debate was over something McCoy obviously didn't understand, something that Spock obviously did. Something scientific and technical that Scotty could probably understand drunk, Kirk could comprehend only if it were Spock explaining it to him, and that McCoy hadn't a hope of ever understanding even if his life depended on it. Spock had given up trying to explain it several minutes ago and had fallen back on his classic "witch doctor" comments that so infuriated McCoy, who was shooting back _his _classic "computerized hobgoblin" remarks with venom. Both had long since passed the point of friendly bickering and were progressing quickly to the more unfriendly _I'm going to feed you to a Rigellian Sand Slug next shore leave_ barbs.

Kirk was fed up with it.

He spun the center seat ninety degrees so quickly that Spock's head whipped around with one eyebrow raised, immediately all innocence. McCoy, halfway through a sentence that had begun with "Spock, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were a…" stopped short and twisted to face his Captain, the look on his face so ugly that Kirk was grateful he hadn't heard the end of _that_ particular sentiment.

"Gentlemen, I'm so terribly sorry to break up such a stimulating conversation, but this has gone _quite_ far enough. Would you be so kind as to either dismiss yourselves from the Bridge and continue your discussion elsewhere, or _shut up?_"

The Bridge was deadly quiet, and Kirk felt vindictive satisfaction at the look of utter astonishment on McCoy's face and the equal shock reflected in Spock's eyes.

"Jim…"

"I don't want to hear it, Doctor. I've given you a choice. Choose one or the other, but I don't want to hear another word from either one of you except to report a death or imminent destruction. Am I understood?"

Spock nodded without hesitation, face again impassive, shoulders rigid, hands placed carefully in his lap. McCoy's quick temper, however, flared.

"Death or imminent destruction? All right, Jim, how about Spock's imminent destruction? All I've got to do is program him to self-destruct, but I'm afraid I'll need your signature to complete the procedure."

Kirk slammed a fist down on the armrest, his equally hot temper exploding at the promise of a shouting match with the one man on board who was his equal. "Doctor McCoy! You have your orders…I would suggest that you obey them! If you cast your mind back to the state of the Bridge ten minutes ago, you'll find that it was entirely peaceful until you showed up. If you can't keep from disrupting the calm and efficiency of this vessel, then you will confine yourself to Sickbay where you belong!"

The blood drained from McCoy's face, and his jaw clenched. "Yes, sir."

The acquiescence was disheartening—after the tension of the past few days, Kirk needed a good shout.

It had been one mission after the other for weeks now. Shore leave was months in the past and looked to be months in the future. His crew had been captured, drugged, possessed, and slaughtered without a moment's pause to recuperate before Starfleet had given them their next assignment. He was emotionally and physically drained, and a healthy blowout would do him good.

"That goes for you too, Mr. Spock," he said, swiveling his attention to his First Officer. "I realize that you and Doctor McCoy have your differences, but there are better times and places to fight them out than on duty. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Captain. I apologize for my behavior. It will not happen again."

"Make sure it doesn't." Kirk turned his attention back to McCoy, who was looking mutinous. "Anything else, Doctor? Well? Spit it out."

"I have been told not to speak, sir," McCoy drawled. "Just following orders."

Kirk ground his teeth together, knowing he should just let it go. McCoy was just as stressed and sick as Kirk was; every single letter that Kirk had written to family informing them of a death in the last month was a crewmember that McCoy had had to pronounce dead. Some of them he hadn't had a chance to fight for—others he hadn't been capable of saving. There had been far too many letters, far too many replacements, and the whole crew was beginning to channel their Captain and CMO's dark moods.

But his mouth was moving now despite his efforts at control.

"Your insolence borders on insubordination, Doctor. Don't make me…"

"Don't make you do what, Captain? Don't make you do _what?_"

Kirk leapt to his feet, squaring off to McCoy, who, being up on the Science deck while Kirk was on the level below, had over a foot on Kirk, and he was using it to his advantage with obvious pleasure.

"Don't make me report you!"

"Yes, _sir_! Wouldn't want to do a thing like that. No, suh." McCoy's emotion-induced drawl was thickening with every syllable until the last word was nearly intelligible. "Excuse me, Captain. You're right—I don't belong here, and I'll remove myself straightaways to Sickbay. The next time you hear my voice will be to report the next _death_. It shouldn't be long."

Uhura's gasp was loud on the listening Bridge. Kirk didn't spare her a glance—he felt her shock resonating inside his chest, and it hurt. _He blames me…_McCoy turned to go, looking anything but apologetic. Kirk stepped up in his way and the doctor pulled up short, ice-blue eyes meeting the darkening hazel without fear.

"I won't have that kind of talk on my ship, Doctor," Kirk whispered harshly. "You know better than I do what kind of a time we've been having. There won't be talk of it!"

"Not talking about it won't make it go away, Captain," McCoy said bitterly. "You can't hide from death, you've got to face it and let it go or it'll tear you apart…"

"I don't need a lecture. You're dismissed, Doctor McCoy! Confine yourself to quarters."

But the blue eyes were softening, and the shoulders slumped. "Jim, I didn't mean to bring it up here, but you _do_ need to talk about it. The crew's walking on nails as it is, and a Captain who's out of sorts isn't helping their spirits. It's my job as Chief Medical Officer to look after the morale of the crew. All they need is a decent shore leave, but with that out of the question...well, and the Captain isn't helping matters. If the Captain ain't happy…"

"I _said_, I don't need a lecture! I'm perfectly all right; I'm no more strained than the next man. _Less_ so; I'm the Captain, and I'm aware of the morale of the crew."

Spock had stood, watching the conversation with furrowed eyebrows. He took a step forward and McCoy looked heavenward.

"Captain, if I may add my…"

"You may _not_, Spock."

He would have thought that McCoy would be grateful for the backup, but contrary to his expectations, McCoy whirled on Spock.

"Can't you stay out of this, Spock? You wouldn't understand, not with those circuits and screws you've got where your heart should be. Every crewmember we've lost has been just another casualty to you, just another insignificant human being killed in the name of exploration and science."

"On the contrary, doctor, though they have indeed been lost for scientific purposes…"

"Scientific purposes! Pawns in a game, Spock, pawns! Don't you have a _heart_?"

"Circuits and screws, Doctor."

McCoy gaped, flared, opened his mouth to retaliate, but Kirk was feeling suddenly nauseous, mind sick with the words McCoy had thrown in his face, with the feelings that he had brought to the surface. Those feelings had been rising steadily for the past thirty days, heightening with every new loss. Feelings of guilt, of incompetence. After all, it _was_ his fault that all of those young men and women were lying buried on scattered planets so far from home. _He _was the one who was sending them on the landing parties, _he _was the one responsible for their safety, the one who had led them into dangerous situation after dangerous situation without sufficient protection. It was all his fault.

Even McCoy knew it. Did the rest of the crew know it too? Were they blaming him even now, those few on the Bridge listening to the conversation, encouraging McCoy, hissing at him? He couldn't think of it, didn't want to think of it, but surely he wasn't imagining the accusatory glance from the crewman at Engineering, and even that odd glint in Spock's eyes. So he did what he always did when he felt cornered and guilty, even though deep inside he knew that he'd regret it. He lashed out.

"That's enough, Doctor! I'm through with you. No, I don't want to hear another word."

"Jim…"

"Not _another _word, McCoy, can't you get that through your head? I don't want to hear your voice; I don't want to hear it! Your insisted defiance of your superior officers has gone on long enough. You _will_ follow orders from your Captain and your First Officer or you _will_ be cited for insubordination. I have given you seniority in Sickbay, but your authority is limited to its confines. As I have stated before, _that _is where you belong, and _that_ is where you are to stay until I give further orders. Dismissed."

McCoy was leaning back against the console, staggered by the unrelenting harshness of his tone. His thumb was rapidly twisting the ring on his little finger, though he didn't seem to notice. He hesitated, shooting a glance at Spock who looked steadily back. Kirk saw understanding in the familiar expressionless face, and knowing that Spock was siding silently with McCoy hurt more than he had thought it would. Didn't he need the support just as much?

"I said dismissed!"

McCoy straightened. "Yes, sir." His face was carefully blank, but Kirk knew that behind the façade he was hurting just as much as Kirk was. He felt only the smallest stab of guilt, swallowed up in the pleasure it brought to feel in control. It had been a long time since he'd felt in control.

But as the turbolift door swished shut behind McCoy and he settled stiffly back into the center seat, he felt the control slipping away. Sulu and Chekov were curved over their instruments, silent. Uhura coughed softly behind him as she returned to her duties, and he heard Spock sit carefully back down and knew that his First Officer disapproved.

Isolated in the center chair, he clenched both fists in his lap and looked at the stars.

* * *

Forty minutes later he was diving cleanly into his favorite of the Enterprise's pools, which had conveniently emptied the moment he had strode into the dressing area a few minutes before. Apparently news of his black mood had spread. The few crewmen in the dressing room saluted him quickly and made themselves scarce; he pulled on the standard-issue swim trunks roughly and ducked into the pool area before anyone else came in.

The water was lukewarm bordering on the cool side, which suited him perfectly. He cut through the water with long, straight strokes. Reaching the opposite end, he flipped in the water, kicking off from the edge without missing a beat. He swam several laps without pause, without thought, the tension in his shoulders and back draining with the physical exertion. When his breathing became more labored, he flipped onto his back and switched neatly into a lazy backstroke. One hand struck the side and he latched onto it, turning himself slowly in the water until he faced the edge. But this brief respite allowed his mind to resume its gloomy train of thought it had been riding for over an hour and he kicked off violently from the side again.

But despite the exercise, despite his concentration on keeping his strokes even and fluid, the thoughts continued to trickle in.

_Why _couldn't they stop bickering? Couldn't they see how exhausted the crew was? Couldn't they see how shot his nerves were, how much they all needed a shore leave? Why was it that the instant they saw each other they were at each other's throats? Constant poking and teasing and taunting, what began as friendly little disputes escalating into full-blown verbal catfights within a matter of minutes. Why must he always be the mediator, always the one to tear the two of them apart before he lost either his First or his CMO to fratricide?

Why couldn't they just _get along?_

But this wasn't entirely fair, he thought, missing a stroke as the most recent scuffle replayed in his head. It wasn't Spock's fault hardly at all. He started the contention only occasionally, and this last explosion certainly hadn't been his instigating. As harsh as he knew he had been, what he had said to Bones McCoy certainly had some truth to it. The Bridge _had_ been quiet and peaceful until he had arrived. And he had certainly been the one to make a beeline for Science with hardly a hello in the direction of the center seat.

Yes, Kirk decided, flipping off the edge again with a labored breath in the general direction of the ceiling, it wasn't fair to blame Spock for the outbursts. After all, he was a Vulcan. Bickering wasn't in his nature, at least not in his nature near enough to the surface to matter. Something about Leonard McCoy brought the human side of him rearing through the tough Vulcan exterior so quickly that he made it look easy. Talent? Maybe.

He continued in this vein for nearly a half hour more, fuming, hardly feeling the ache in his muscles as he continued to cross the pool back and forth, back and forth. Several times he heard the door slide open, hasty murmurs, and backtracking footsteps, but he paid them no mind.

It wasn't until every muscle in his body screamed at him to stop that he flipped onto his back again and lay there, floating gently on the surface, temper cooling as he drifted on his own current, water filling his ears and lapping against the sides of his face. He closed his eyes, and the first feelings of shame accosted him. Until now, he had only felt anger at his two best friends, exhaustion because of the long sleepless nights and day-round shifts, irritation at Starfleet, guilt because of those he had lost, rage because of his inability to change anything.

Now, Bones' face rose to the front of his mind and he winced. He had looked so small, slumped there against the console, looking at Spock for reassurance. He had just blown up at Spock, just abused him again for having a computer for a heart, and there he was turning to him for comfort when Kirk turned against them both. That very look suddenly spoke volumes to him, and he cursed inwardly.

He had alienated them both. McCoy was very likely puttering around Sickbay in a right state, alternating between grousing at his nurses and fortifying his hurt feelings and guilty conscience with his usual "medicinal drafts". Spock was still up on the Bridge, conducting business and no doubt pondering again the foolishness of human emotion. And here he was, swimming laps in the pool that was gradually feeling colder and colder against his body, hiding from them both.

With a loud groan he tipped his body upright and began to tread water, forcing himself to face what he already knew was true—it was up to him to apologize. His prerogative, seeing as it was his fault. What he had said on the Bridge was overly-dramatic and inexcusable, and he couldn't blame Spock for being disapproving, or Bones for retreating to Sickbay as told.

It had been childish, hadn't it, his ordering his CMO to time-out in his quarters? He snorted derisively, both at himself and at Bones for obeying such an order. But he'd been serious at the time. Now, it all seemed foolish and very unlike a Starship Captain should act. He sighed and tipped over again onto his stomach, floating gently in the cool water in the dead-man's float, reflecting. He'd have to apologize to the Bridge crew as well as Spock and McCoy for this one; his loss of temper had been public, so the apology would follow suit.

Bones though…Bones he would offer a personal, private apology. The hurt he'd caused warranted that. And if he knew Leonard McCoy, the doctor would be quick to offer a smile, an apology of his own, and a share in the "medicinal draught". Kirk made a face at the bottom of the pool. It was always so easy to patch up arguments with his friends—it was simply a matter of swallowing his pride.

Just as he was beginning to think about taking a breath and getting out of the pool before his skin was permanently wrinkled, there was a muffled shout from above him and someone slammed into the water a few feet from him, sending him shooting bolt upright in panicked surprise. He hadn't heard anyone come in. Just as his head cleared the water and he opened his mouth to breathe a pair of strong hands grabbed him around the shoulders and he plunged underwater again, inhaling a lungful of water. He choked, squirming, and managed to grab hold of an arm and pull his attacker underneath him. His foot found something solid and he shoved off of it, pushing the body further underwater and using the momentum to propel himself to the surface, where he struck out for the side and hauled himself out of the water in one quick motion, gulping in air and coughing out pool water.

As he turned, ready to face his unknown assailant, a dark head popped above the water, sputtering. He gaped, and gave a strained roar of laughter that was cut short by more sputtered coughing.

"_Bones?"_

McCoy's hair was plastered tight to his head, and his eyes narrowed as he watched Kirk alternate between snickers and dispelling water from his stomach and lungs. He remained in the center of the pool, treading water, scowling. Kirk held up a hand, trying to talk, wholly amused but recognizing that Bones was definitely less than. McCoy waited patiently, water from his sopping hair dripping unchecked down his face. He was fully clothed including boots, and Kirk felt a rush of warmth toward his friend. _That_ was dedication. He squatted down on the pool edge as he regained control, though he couldn't stop the silly little grin that he knew was making him look guilty.

"Bones…I'm sorry, I am. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

McCoy grunted, still treading water easily despite the weight of his uniform. "Just my pride, Jim. I thought you were _dead_, you fool. Floating like that—couldn't spare a minute to respond, could you?"

"I didn't hear you," Kirk said honestly. "I swear I didn't hear you come in. I thought I was being attacked." He held out his hand, and McCoy eyed it suspiciously for a moment before rolling forward into a long, slow stroke. He reached the edge but didn't take the hand, gripping the side instead and moving his long legs lazily to help keep him afloat.

"Well, do me a favor," he said finally. "Tell someone where you're going to be next time you run off like that. This ship is safe, but not _that_ safe. I was worried."

"Aw, come on, Bones. What could I possibly do to get hurt? I'd have to be daft…"

"Or have a disturbing knack of walking right into trouble whether it was looking for you or not," McCoy interrupted. "And don't try to deny that you've got that knack, James Kirk."

"You should give me more credit," Kirk grinned. "More often than not I'm running into trouble to get people like _you_ out of it."

McCoy sniffed. "Don't know what you're talking about. But seriously, Jim, I thought you'd been hurt. Just leave a note or something if you're going to choose an obscure location to work out some tension, ok?"

Kirk shook his head. "You're mother henning again, Doc."

McCoy permitted a quirky little smile. "And you'd do exactly the same if you were in my position, and you know it."

Kirk didn't deny it, but held out his hand again. This time, Bones reached up and grasped it, but instead of allowing Kirk to pull him out, he gave a tremendous yank and Kirk pitched headfirst into the water to an accompanying war whoop from his CMO. He floated gently at the bottom for a moment before he surfaced, shaking his head and flinging water and hair out of his eyes to see one of McCoy's boots landing on the side of the pool next to its companion. A second later the dripping blue uniform top joined them and McCoy disappeared, flipping under the water and emerging a few feet away with a contented sigh.

The water was even colder than before, but Kirk didn't mind. Revenge was much more important. He allowed a slow, snaky grin to sneak onto his face and found great pleasure in the answering trepidation in McCoy's widening eyes.

"If that's how you're going to play, Doctor…" he said. McCoy backpedaled, shaking his head helplessly.

"Harmless fun, Jim."

Kirk barreled forward, but McCoy was ready, and despite the extra weight of his slacks and black t-shirt, he was faster than Kirk's tired muscles were capable of propelling him. He hovered on the opposite side of the pool, teasing, hooting taunts across as Kirk stalked him, aching but happy, the argument on the Bridge forgotten.

It was as if they had shed the past weeks of stress and loss, as if it were slipping wonderfully away from them in the ripples they made in the water as they circled the pool in lap after lap, chasing each other sometimes, racing others. As Kirk noted a long-absent exultant smile on McCoy's face, he realized for the first time that McCoy had taken every single death as hard as he himself had. And he wondered if the blame in McCoy's voice on the Bridge had not been aimed at Kirk, but rather at himself.

After a few minutes of this, the laps degenerated into long-distance splash war—Kirk was vindictively satisfied to see that despite McCoy's greater speed, his range was just less than his Captain's, with the result that he soon found himself pressed up against the wall with nowhere left to retreat. Kirk advanced, McCoy lunged forward, and they met in the middle and sank to the bottom, grappling with each other. McCoy's hands slipped, searching for a hold on Kirk's wet biceps, but Kirk found purchase on the black undershirt and forced the doctor underneath him. He tried to shove off the doctor's shoulder again to propel himself above water, but McCoy grabbed his ankle and yanked him roughly underneath again; they surfaced together, gasping, their laughter echoing on the vaulted ceiling.

Spock found them a few minutes later, floating aimlessly in the pool, turning themselves with lazy strokes, discussing nothing even relatively important to anything. He stood and watched them, wondering as he always did when confronted with _swimming_ what made it such a pleasurable activity. When he noticed Kirk finally noticing him, he took a delicate step backwards away from the edge, knowing instinctively what that bared grin meant. The answering smirk from the doctor left him in no doubt as to their intentions.

McCoy joined his captain and they struck out gently for the edge, calling innocent greetings. Spock wisely took another few steps back, putting him safely out of range of groping hands.

"Aww, Spock, you're no fun," Kirk wheedled. "Hop in—it feels great."

"As evidenced by the unnatural blue tint to your lips," Spock observed. "One of the early stages of hypothermia, if I'm not mistaken."

McCoy shrugged, though he too was shivering. "A very early stage, Mr. Spock. But just to be safe…" he grasped the side and pulled himself cleanly from the water to a waiting towel. "Thank you, Mr. Spock." He shook himself like a dog, spattering the Vulcan whose lips tightened imperceptibly as he shook out another towel for his Captain.

"Thank you, Doctor."

"My pleasure," McCoy replied cheerfully, rubbing the towel through his thick black hair. Kirk accepted the towel with a wolfish grin but said nothing. He was really cold now, and didn't trust himself to talk without his teeth chattering. McCoy eyed him with narrowed eyes, and he attempted a smile that failed. "On second thought, Jim, you look pretty cold. Just how long were you in that pool?"

Kirk shrugged. "Not long enough to be dangerous, Doc. I'm perfectly all right."

"Let me be the judge of that," McCoy said in his no-nonsense Doctor voice. "Long enough, I'll bet, and that combined with stress and little sleep…you're coming down to Sickbay with me; I wanna give you a look-over before it _does_ get dangerous."

Kirk started to protest, but one look at the attitude on his CMO's face and the obvious agreement on his XO's gave them a premature end. "All right. You win. I'm coming."

"Durned right I win," McCoy growled. But the hand he placed on Kirk's towel-draped shoulder was gentle. Spock fell into place on Kirk's other side, and they left the pool area together, quite forgetting the discarded clothing until they were walking the corridor outside.

"Ah, well," McCoy said, looking down at his bare feet and wiggling his toes experimentally. "It won't do any harm. I'll go back and pick them up later, or better yet, send one of those new ensigns for them."

"Now Doc, they aren't errand boys, you know," Kirk scolded lightly. McCoy grinned.

"Says who? What good is a rank if you don't use it to send your underlings on necessary errands you'd rather not do yourself? I might get _some_ use out of wearing those stripes."

"Well, you_ aren't _wearing them," Kirk started to point out, but Spock got there first.

"It is against both Starfleet regulations and moral ethics to abuse your authority as Senior Officer, Doctor McCoy," he said stiffly. "I would advise you to take care that you do not overstep your privileges as Lieutenant Commander…"

"Oh, please, Spock," McCoy interrupted. "I was _joking_. Kidding around. I do not abuse my authority. And since when did you care about moral ethics? I wasn't aware that they had anything to do with _logic_…"

"On the contrary, they have much to do with logic," Spock returned. "It is illogical to ignore their relevancy in diplomacy, personal relationships, and all manner of interactions between both human beings and species of other origins. Social and moral ethics, however varied, must take prerogative if one is to understand the functions of any particular race or alien species, which is necessary to understanding…"

"All right, all right," Kirk interjected, looking back and forth between one friend to the other. Spock cut off, looking as mortified as it were possible for him to look. McCoy cursed under his breath, his towel slipping off one shoulder as he stopped dead in the corridor, the water dripping from his uniform trousers beginning a puddle around his bare feet.

"I'm sorry, Jim, I didn't think…aw, Jim…"

"Captain, my apologies. I promised you on the Bridge that I…"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Kirk said, lifting both hands and cutting off their apologies with something warm blossoming in his chest. "At ease. Forget it. It's me that should be apologizing to you. I was wrong today on the Bridge, and I'll take the blame for the tension. To both of you, I'm sorry. Forgive me."

Silence, in which Spock and McCoy exchanged a look over Kirk's head. As McCoy opened his mouth to argue, Kirk cut it off.

"Shall we consider the matter closed?"

As both continued to hesitate, Kirk held out his hands pleadingly. "Look, Bones, if you're still feeling guilty, how about you let me off this visit to Sickbay and we'll call it square…"

"I'm feeling guilty, Jim, but not _that_ guilty." McCoy grasped his arm and tugged him back into motion. "We'll consider the matter closed. Agreed, Mr. Spock?"

"If it will get him into Sickbay, it is agreed," Spock said.

Kirk scowled, but his heart wasn't into it. As they walked side by side down the corridor, Spock solid, dignified, and clothed as always, Kirk damp but drying and in nothing but a pair of swim trunks and McCoy's still very wet underclothes leaving a respectable trail of dripping water behind them, he found that he was happy.

If it took several hours in cool water, a pool war with his Senior Medical Officer, and a rather embarrassing walk through the Enterprise to reach Sickbay only to be poked, prodded and injected with an unnameable drug to prevent improbable hypothermia, he didn't mind. It was worth it to be on good terms with his closest friends again. He had to admit to himself—privately, of course; it wouldn't do to have them ever know—if they ever stopped bickering, he would miss it.

And if it ever came to be too much for him again, he knew where he could go. And now they knew where to find him. Somehow, he reflected, as Spock left him in McCoy's ice-cold, capable hands at the doors of Sickbay, he would survive another few years of swimming laps and floating the deadman's. But not without another few years of races, splash wars, waiting towels, forgotten uniforms, and barefoot walks through the Enterprise.

Not without that.

Not without them.

* * *

Please review, and let me know what you think! I'll take any constructive criticism, and any other feedback you want to provide.


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